GIFT  OF 


"A  'K  ' 

"SOJCJ 


,  MORE 

MARITIME  MELODIES 


-A   COLLECTION   OF- 


Poems  and  Ballads  of  the  Sea,  together  with 
an  Appendix,  bnth  Poetical  and  III orldly- wise, 


COMPLIMENTS   OF   THE 


Commercial 


—  WITH  — 

A     MERRY    CHRISTMAS 

—  AND  — 

A     HAPPY    NEW     YEAR 

TO   EACH   READER. 


San  Francisco,   IB 94, 


ce    *  * 

TO    FIRST    EDITION. 

"For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and  share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for  cent." 

PRESENTING  this  little  volume  to  its  friends, 
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owners,  charterers,  insurers  of  vessel  property,  and 
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terests.  The  selection  of  poems  with  the  sea  for 
their  subject  seems  therefore  most  appropriate. 
Trusting  the  readers  of  this  volume  will  gain  a  half 
hour's  recreation  from  perusing  its  pages  and  with 
the  best  wishes  for  a  prosperous  new  year,  we  remain 
Very  truly  yours, 

THE  COMMERCIAL  PUBLISHING  Co. 

Christmas^  1889. 

340142 


*  * 


TO    SECOND    EDITION. 

"For  lucky  shares  and  scrip  came  from  the  rhymes, 
And  cent  for  cent  from  mellow  metres  came." 

fHUS  is  Tennyson  reversed,  and  for  good  reason. 
In  1889,  as  a  Christmas  greeting  to  the  friends 
of  the  COMMERCIAL  NEWS  and  the  COMMERCIAL 
PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  Maritime  Melodies,  edition 
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the  season. 

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igator. 

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tion we  remain 

Very  truly  your.;, 

THE  COMMERCIAL  PUBLISHING  Co. 

Christmas,  1894. 


Jeer. 


P\AWN  is  dim  on  the  dark  soft  water, 

Soft  and  passionate,  dark  and  sweet; 
Love's  own  self  was  the  deep  sea's  daughter, 

Fair  and  flawless  from  face  to  feet; 
Hailed  of  all  when  the  world  was  golden, 
Loved  of  all  lovers  whose  names  beholden 
Thrill  men's  eyes  as  with  light  of  olden 

Days  more  glad  than  their  flight  was  fleet. 

So  they  sang;  but  for  men  that  love  her, 
Souls  that  hear  not  her  word  in  vain. 

Earth  beside  her  and  heaven  above  her 
Seem  but  shadows  that  wax  and  wane. 

Softer  than  sleep's  are  the  sea's  caresses, 

Kinder  than  love's  that  betrays  and  blesses. 

Blither  than  spring's  when  her  flowerful  tresses 
Shake  forth  sunlight  and  shine  with  rain. 

All  the  strength  of  the  waves  that  perish 

Swells  beneath  me  and  laughs  and  sighs, 
Sighs  for  love  of  the  life  they  cherish. 

Laughs  to  know  that  it  lives  and  dies; 
Dies  for  joy  of  its  life,  and  lives, 
Thrilled  with  joy  that  its  brief  death  gives, 
Death  whose  laugh  or  whose  breath  forgives 
Change  that  bids  it  subside  and  rise. 

— Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


[The  song  "Ben  Bolt"  might  almost  be  said  to  be  one  of  the  features 
in  Du  Manner's  "Trilby.  '  It  is  the  song  which  the  heroine  of  that 
much-read  story  sings  so  abominably  at  the  beginning  of  the  book, 
and  so  divinely  toward  the  close  of  it,  but  which  a  little  later  on  she 
sings  in  her  old  manner  again  and  is  accordingly  hooted  off  the  stage 
in  L,ondon.  It  seems  that,  in  1843,  Dr.  Thomas  Dunn  English  (now  a 
member  of  Congress  from  New  jersey)  was  asked  by  N.  P.Willis  to 
write  a  sea  song  for  the  "New  Mirror,"  which  Willis  and  George  P. 
Morris  had  just  galvanized  into  life  from  the  corpse  of  the  New  York 
"Mirror."  In  1846,  a  hanger-on  of  the  Pittsburg  Theatre  gave  one 
Nelson  F.  Kneass  a  garbled  version  of  the  words  of  the  song,  which 
he  had  found  in  an  English  newspaper,  and  Kneass  set  the  thing  to 
music  and  sang  it  in  a  play  called  "The  Battlt  of  Buena  Vista."  The 

Siece  traveled  with  him  all  over  the  country,  "was  picked  up  by  all 
le  minstrel  troupes,  went  to  Australia  and  the  Sandwich  Isles  and 
wherever  the  English  language  was  spoken,  was  sung  in  London,  and 
had  all  kinds  of  parodies  and  replies  among  the  street  ballads  of  that 
city."  It  is  said  that  sixty  thousand  copies  of  the  music  were  sold  by 
Peters.  Half  a  dozen  other  settings  were  published,  but  none  of  them 
had  the  pop  'larity  of  Kneass' s  air,  which  was  adapted  from  a  German 
melody,  the  origina1  of  which  was  afterward  published  with  the  same 
words.  The  song  has  had  as  many  claimants  as  "Beautiful  Snow." 
It  is  odd  that  the  poem  should  have  made  such  a  tremendous  sensa- 
tion in  its  day,  for  the  verse  is  by  no  means  good,  and  the  sentiment 
is  hackneyed  and  commonplace.] 

pjON'T  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt — 

Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown, 
Who  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 

And  .trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown? 
In  the  old  church-yard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone, 
They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  the  granite  so  gray, 

And  Alice  lies  under  the  stone. 

Under  the  hickory  tree,  Ben  Bolt, 

Which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Together  we've  lain  in  the  noonday  shade, 

And  listened  to  Appleton's  mill. 
The  mill  wheel  has  fallen  to  pieces,  Ben  Bolt, 

["*] 


The  rafters  have  tumbled  in, 

And  a  quiet  which  crawls  round  the  walls  as  you  gaze, 
Has  followed  the  olden  din. 

Do  you  mind  the  cabin  of  logs,  Ben  Bolt, 

At  the  edge  of  the  pathless  wood, 
And  the  button-ball  tree,  with  its  motley  limbs, 

Which  nigh  by  the  doorstep  stood  ?* 
The  cabin  to  ruin  has  gone,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  tree  you  would  seek  for  in  vain; 
And  where  once  the  lords  of  the  forest  waived 

Are  grass  and  golden  grain. 

And  don't  you  remember  the  school.  Ben  Bolt, 

With  the  master  so  cruel  and  grim, 
And  the  shaded  nook  in  the  running  brook 

Where  the  children  went  to  swim  ? 
Grass  grows  on  the  master's  grave,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  spring  of  the  brook  is  dry, 
And  of  all  the  boys  who  went  to  school, 

There  are  only  you  and  I. 

There  is  a  change  in  the  things  I  loved,  Ben  Bolt, 

They  have  changed  from  the  old  to  the  new; 
But  I  feel  in  the  depths  of  my  spirit  the  truth, 

There  never  was  change  in  you. 
Twelvemonths  twenty  have  past,  Ben  Bolt, 

Since  first  we  were  friends — yet  I  hail 
Your  presence  a  blessing,  your  friendship  a  truth,. 

Ben  Bolt  of  the  salt  sea  gale. 

—  Thomas  Dunn  English. 


PROM  out  his  castle  on  the  sand 
He  lead  his  tawny-bearded  band 
In  stormy  bark  from  land  to  land. 

The  red  dawn  was  his  goodly  sign, 
He  set  his  face  to  sleet  and  brine, 
And  quaffed  the  blast  like  ruddy  wine. 

And  often  felt  the  swirling  gale 
Beat,  like  some  giant  thresher's  flail, 
Upon  his  battered  coat  of  mail; 

Or  sacked,  at  times,  some  windy  town, 
And  from  the  pastures,  parched  and  brown, 
He  drove  the  scurrying  cattle  down; 

And  kissed  the  maids,  and  stole  the  bell 
From  off*  the  church  below  the  fell, 
And  drowned  the  priest  within  the  well. 

And  he  had  seen,  on  frosty  nights, 
Strange,  whirling  forms  and  elfin  sights, 
In  twilight  land,  by  Northern  Lights; 

Or,  sailing  on  by  windless  shoal, 
Had  heard,  by  night,  the  song  of  troll 
Within  some  cavern-haunted  knoll. 

[10] 


Off  Iceland,  too,  the  sudden  rush 

Of  waters  falling,  in  a  hush 

He  heard  the  ice-fields  grind  and  crush. 

His  prow  the  sheeny  south  seas  clove; 
Warm,  spiced  winds  from  lemon  grove 
And  heated  thicket  round  him  drove. 

The  storm-blast  was  his  deity; 
His  lover  was  the  fitful  sea; 
The  wailing  winds  his  melody. 

By  rocky  scaur  and  beachy  head 
He  followed  where  his  fancy  led, 
And  down  the  rainy  waters  fled; 

And  left  the  peopled  towns  behind, 
And  gave  his  days  and  nights  to  find 
What  lay  beyond  the  western  wind. 

— L.  Prank  Tooker. 


ff 

o|[ 


THE  weather  leech  of  the  topsail  shivers, 
The  bowlines  strain  and  the  lee  shrouds  slacken; 
The  braces  are  taut  and  the  lithe  boom  quivers, 
As  the  waves  with  the  coming  squall-cloud  blacken. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather  bow, 

Is  the  light-house  tall  on  Fire  Island  Head; 

There's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  Captain's  brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager  eye 
To  sea  and  to  sky,  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 

Till  the  muttered  order  of  "Full  and  by" 
Is  suddenly  changed  to  "Full  for  stays." 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze, 
As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays, 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas 
As  the  pilot  calls  "Stand  by  for  stays  !" 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place, 

With  the  gathered  coil  in  his  hardened  hands, 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace, 
Waiting  the  watchword,  impatient  stands. 

And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  Head  draws  near, 

As  trumpet-winged  the  pilot's  shout 
From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel  I  hear, 

With  the  welcome  call  of  "Ready,  about  !" 

[12] 


No  time  to  spare;  'tis  touch  and  go. 

And  the  Captain  growls,  "  Down  helm!  hard  down!" 
As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I  throw, 
While  heaven  grows  black  with  the  storm-clouds  frown. 

High  o'er  the  knight-heads  flies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea, 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I  lay, 
As  lanswer  "Aye,  aye,  sir,  hard  a  lee  !" 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed, 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede, 

And  the  headland  white  we  have  left  behind. 

[13] 


The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse, 

And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats; 

The  spanker  slaps,  and  the  mainsail  flaps, 

And  thunders  the  order,  "Tacks  and  sheets  !" 

'Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp  of  the  crew, 
Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall, 

The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew, 

And  now  is  the  moment  for  "Mainsail  haul  !" 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby's  toy, 
By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung; 

She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy, 

For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the  bulwarks  flung. 

"Let  go  and  haul  !"  'tis  the  last  command, 
And  the  head-sails  fill  to  the  blast  once  more, 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

With  its  breakers  white  on  the  shingly  shore. 

What  matters  the  reef  or  the  rain  or  the  squall, 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea; 
The  first  mate  clamors  "Belay  there  all," 

And  the  Captain's  breath  once  more  comes  free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly, 
Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow; 

In  my  fo'castle  bunk  in  a  jacket  dry, 

Eight  bells  have  struck  and  my  watch  is  below. 


114] 


Wije^ 


S  WING  high  and  swing  low  while  the  breezes  they 

^  blow, 

It's  off  for  a  sailor  thy  father  would  go; 

And  it's  here  in  the  harbor  in  sight  of  the  sea 

He  hath  left  his  wee  babe  with  my  song  and  with  me; 
" Swing  high  and  swing  low 
While  the  breezes  they  blow!" 


[15] 


Swing  high  and  swing  low  while  the  breezes  they  blow ! 

It's  oh  for  the  waiting  as  weary  days  go  ! 

And  it's  oh  for  the  heartache  that  smiteth  me  when 

I  sing  my  song  over  and  over  again: 

"Swing  high  and  swing  low 
While  the  breezes  they  blow!" 

"Swing  high  and  swing  low/'  the  sea  singeth  so, 
And  it  waileth  anon  in  its  ebb  and  its  flow; 
And  a  sleeper  sleeps  on  to  that  song  of  the  sea, 
Nor  recketh  he  ever  of  mine  or  of  me  ! 
"Swing  high  and  swing  low 
While  the  breezes  they  blow, 
'Twas  off  for  a  sailor  thy  father  would  go  !" 

— Eugene  Field. 


shall  I  sing  of  thee,  my  ship, 
Lone  center  of  this  orb  of  blue, 
Horizoned  by  the  rosy  light 

Of  peeping  dawn,  and  sleeping  evening  too  ? 

Thou  art  the  pupil,  ship  of  mine, 

Which  lights  this  round  and  azure  eye, 

Rimmed  by  the  rosy  lids  of  dawn, 

And  lost  in  sleep  when  evening  rules  the  sky. 

—  Charles  A.  Gunnison. 

[16] 


ceerr) 


The  following  little  poem  was  written  by  the  late  Colonel  1C.  D. 
Baker,  the  celebrated  orator  and  soldier,  under  interesting  circum- 
stances. Many  years  ago,  before  he  had  taken  up  arms  in  his  coun- 
try's service,  he  was  walking  home  from  church  one  Sunday  with  a 
lady,  who  still  resides  in  this  city,  when  she  complained  of  the  buffet- 
ing of  the  winds  for  which  San  Francisco  was,  and  still  is,  famed.  She 


poet 
note: 


TO    THE    OCEAN    WIND. 


^EAWARD  the  mists  lie  dense  and  deep, 
^     And  wild  the  tempests  blow, 
The  sea-gull  circles  round  the  steep, 

And  waves  are  white  below. 
Speed  —  speed  —  ye  winds,  your  viewless  flights, 

But  landward  as  ye  roam 
Bear  on  your  rustling  wings  to-night 

Health  to  her  distant  home. 

Ye  come  from  Isles  of  spice  and  bloom, 

Where  palm  trees  line  the  strand, 
Yet  mingling  with  your  rich  perfume 

Airs  from  a  colder  land. 
Loud  tho'  ye  rage,  and  wild  ye  roar, 

Sweet  is  your  breath,  and  free, 
And  full  of  blessings  to  the  shore 

The  storm  that  sweeps  the  sea. 

[17] 


But  if  those  eddying  blasts  have  power 

A  wish  or  word  to  bear, 
Seek  ere  ye  sleep,  my  loved  one's  bower 

And  leave  my  greeting  there. 
Whisper  it  gently  in  her  ear 

When  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
And  kiss  away  the  starting  tear 

When  none  but  you  are  nigh. 

Tell  her  I  love  her — in  that  word 

Soul>  heart,  thought,  impulse  thrill, 
Tell  her  that  every  vow  she  heard 

I've  fondly  kept,  and  will. 
Tell  her — but,  no,  I  soon  shall  see 

The  "love  light"  in  her  eye. 
Till  then  my  only  word  shall  be 

Love — blessing — and  good-bye. 

Mr.  Baker  presents  his  respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  and 

sends  the  trifle  enclosed  as  a  proof  (of  which  said  proof  she  of  all 
persons  needs  least)  that  a  lady's  commands  impel  the  commonest 
imagination  into  the  forms  of  poetry  even  when  the  spirit  is  most 
wanting. 

MONDAY  MORNING. 


[IS] 


1   AM  the  Hakon  Jarl.     The  waters  play 
*      Around  my  battered  hull;  and  underneath 
The  sharks  glide  fishing.     From  the  frozen  North 
The  icebergs  gather  in  a  spectral  fleet, 
Shining  in  lakes  of  sea  beneath  the  moon. 

Drifting  !  drifting  !     Unto  the  misty  port 
Where  neither  signal-gun  nor  flashing  wire 
Sends  back  arrival  to  the  anxious  hearts, 
That  wander  on  the  highlands  and  the  shore. 


So  shall  ye  drift,  oh  great,  loud-clanging  ships, 
That  pass  me  by,  so  haughty  and  so  cold; 
A  mockery  of  death,  a  menace  yet 
To  those  that  live  and  swim  upon  the  sea. 

[19] 


And  drifting  ye  shall  follow  all  that  were, 
As  all  that  are  shall  follow  in  their  turn, 
Until  a  light-house  rises  in  the  night, 
From  that  dim  port  men  call  Oblivion. 

—John  James  Meehan. 


[20] 


[The  following  ballad  regarding  the  famous  clipper  Dreadnaught, 
was  once  the  choice  song  of  American  sailors,  and  will  bear  printing.] 

/TJ  HERE'S  a  saucy  wild  packet,  and  a   packet  of 
\  fame, 

She  belongs  to  New  York,  and  the  Dreadnaught's 

her  name. 
She  is  bound  to  the  westward  where  strong  winds  do 

blow, 
Bound   away  in  the    Dreadnaught  to  the  westward 

we  go. 

The  time  of  her  sailing  is  now  drawing  nigh; 
Farewell  pretty  May,  I  must  bid  you  good  bye. 
Farewell  to  old  England  and  all  there  we  hold  dear, 
Bound  away  in  the   Dreadnaught,  to   the  westward 
we'll  steer. 

Oh,  the  Dreadnaught's  hauling  out  of  Waterloo  dock, 
Where  the  boys  and  the  girls  on  the  pier  head  do  flock; 
They  will  give  us  three  cheers  while  their  tears  freely 

flow, 
Saying,  God  bless  the  Dreadnaught  whereso'er  she 

may  go. 

Oh !  the  Dreadnaught  is  waiting  in  the  Mersey  so  free, 
Waiting  for  the  Independence  to  tow  her  to  sea; 

[21] 


For  to  round  that  black  rock  where  the  Mersey  does 

flow. 
Bound  away  in  the  Dreadnaught,  to  the  westward 

we'll  go. 

Oh!  the  Dreadnaught's  ahowling  down  the  wild  Irish 

shore, 
Captain  Samuels  commands   her  as  he's  oft    done 

before, 

While  the  sailors  like  lions  walk  the  decks  to  and  fro, 
Bound  away  in  the  Dreadnaught    to  the  westward 

we'll  go. 

Oh!  the  Dreadnaught's  a'sailing  the  Atlantic  so  wide, 
Where  the  dark,  heavy  seas  roll  along  the  black  side 
With  the  sails  neatly  spread,  and  the  red  cross  to  show, 
Bound  away  in  the  Dreadnaught  to  the  westward 
we'll  go. 

Oh!    the  Dreadnaught's   becalmed  on  the  banks  of 

Newfoundland, 

Where  the  water's  so  green  and  the  bottom  is  sand, 
Where  the  fish  of  the  ocean  swim  round  to  and  fro, 
Bound  away  in  the  Dreadnaught,  to  the  westward 

we'll  go. 

Oh!  the  Dreadnaught's  arrived  in  America  once  more, 
We'll  go  ashore  shipmates,  on  the  land  we  adore, 
See  our  wives  and  our  sweethearts,  be  merry  and  free; 
Drink  a  health  to  the  Dreadnaught  whereso'er   she 
may  be. 

[22] 


Here's  a  health   to   the   Dreadnaught  and  to  all  her 

brave  crew, 

Here's  health  to  Capt.  Samuels  and  officers  too, 
Talk  about  your  flash  packets,  '  'Swallow  Tail"  and 

4  *  Black  Ball," 
But  the  Dreadnaught's  the  clipper  to  beat  one  and  all. 


[23] 


0] 


/QNLY  a  whispering  gale 

^^     Flutters  the  wings  of  the  boat; 

Only  a  bird  in  the  vale 

Lends  to  the  silence  a  note 

Mellow,  subdued,  and  remote; 

This  is  the  twilight  of  peace; 

This  is  the  hour  of  release; 

Free  of  all  worry  and  fret, 

Clean  of  all  care  and  regret, 

When  like  a  bird  in  its  nest 

Fancy  lies  folded  to  rest. 

This  is  the  margin  of  sleep; 

Here  let  the  anchor  be  cast; 

Here  in  forgetfulness  deep, 


Now  that  the  journey  is  past, 
Lower  the  sails  from  the  mast. 
Here  is  the  bay  of  content, 
Heaven  and  earth  interblent; 
Here  is  the  haven  that  lies 
Close  to  the  gates  of  surprise; 
Here  all  like  Paradise  seems — 
Here  is  the  harbor  of  dreams. 

— P.  D.  Sherman. 


U/nHE  fabled  seasnake,  old  Leviathan, 

\       Or  else  what  grisly  beast  of  scaly  chine 
That  champed  the  oceanwrack,  and  swashed  the  brine 
Before  the  new  and  milder  days  of  man, 
Had  never  rib  nor  bray  nor  swingeing  fan 
Like  this  iron  swimmer  of  the  Clyde  or  Tyne, 
Late  born  of  golden  seed  to  breed  a  line 
Of  offspring  swifter  and  more  huge  of  plan. 

"Straight  is  her  going,  for  upon  the  sun 

When  once  she  hath  looked,  her  path  and  place  are 

plain; 

With  tireless  speed  she  smiteth  one  by  one 
The  shuddering  seas  and  foams  along  the  main; 
And  her  eased  breath  when  her  wild  race  is  run 
Roars  through  her  nostrils  like  a  hurricane." 

—  Robert  Bridges. 
[  25  ] 


s, 


/TJHREE  hand-spike  raps  on  the  forward  hatch, 
I       A  hoarse  voice  shouts  down  the  fo'castle  dim, 
Startling  the  sleeping  starboard  watch, 
Out  of  their  bunks,  their  clothes  to  snatch, 
With  little  thought  of  life  or  limb. 

"All  hands  on  deck!  d'ye  hear  the  news? 

Reef  topsails  all  —  'tis  the  old  man's  word. 
Tumble  up,  never  mind  jackets  or  shoes!" 
Never  a  man  would  dare  refuse, 

When  that  stirring  cry  is  heard. 

The  weather  shrouds  are  like  iron  bars, 

The  leeward  backstays  curving  out. 
Like  steely  spear-points  gleam  the  stars 
From  the  black  sky  flecked  with  feathery  bars, 

By  the  storm-wind  swerved  about. 

Across  the  bows  like  a  sheeted  ghost, 

Quivers  a  luminous  cloud  of  spray, 
Flooding  the  forward  deck,  and  most 
Of  the  waist;  then,  like  a  charging  host, 

It  rolls  to  leeward  away. 

"Mizzen  topsail,  clew  up  and  furl; 

Clew  up  your  main  course  now  with  a  will  !" 
The  wheel  goes  down  with  a  sudden  whirl. 

[26] 


"Ease  her,  ease  her,  the  good  old  girl, 
Don't  let  your  head  sails  fill  !" 

"Ease  off  lee  braces;  round  in  on  the  weather; 

Ease  your  halyards;  clew  down,  clew  down; 
Haul  out  your  reef  tackles,  now  together." 
Like  an  angry  bull  against  his  tether, 

Heave  the  folds  of  the  topsails  brown. 

"Haul  taut  your  buntlines,  cheerly,  men,  now!" 
The  gale  sweeps  down  with  a  fiercer  shriek; 

Shock  after  shock  on  the  weather  bow 

Thunders  the  head  sea,  and  below 
Throbbing  timbers  groan  and  creak. 

The  topsail  yards  are  down  on  the  caps; 

Her  head  lies  up  in  the  eyes  of  the  blast; 
The  bellying  sails,  with  sudden  slaps, 
Swell  out  and  angrily  collapse, 

Shaking  the  head  of  the  springing  mast. 

Wilder  and  heavier  comes  the  gale 
Out  of  the  heart  of  the  Northern  Sea; 

And  the  phosphorescent  gleamings  pale 

Surge  up  awash  of  the  monkey  rail 
Along  our  down  pressed  lee. 

"Lay  aloft  !  lay  aloft,  boys,  and  reef, 

Don't  let  my  starbolines  be  last," 
Cries  from  the  deck  the  sturdy  chief; 
"  'Twill  take  a  man  of  muscle  and  beef 

To  get  those  ear-rings  passed." 

[27] 


Into  the  rigging  with  a  shout, 

Our  second  and  third  mates  foremost  spring; 
Crackles  the  ice  on  the  ratlines  stout, 
As  the  leaders  on  the  yards  lay  out, 

And  the  footropes  sway  and  swing. 

On  the  weather  end  of  the  jumping  yard, 
One  hand  on  the  lift,  and  one  beneath, 
Grasping  the  cringle,  and  tugging  hard, 
Black  Dan,  our  third,  grim  and  scarred, 
Clutches  the  ear-ring  for  life  or  death. 

"Light  up  to  windward,"  cries  the  mate, 
As  he  rides  the  surging  yard  arm  end; 

And  into  the  work  we  threw  our  weight, 

Every  man  bound  to  emulate, 

The  rush  of  the  gale,  and  the  sea's  wild  send. 

"Haul  out  to  leeward,"  comes  at  last, 

With  a  cheering  from  the  fore  and  main; 
"Knot  your  reef-points,  and  knot  them  fast/' 
Weather  and  lee  are  the  ear-rings  passed, 
And  over  the  yard  we  bend  and  strain. 

"Lay  down  men,  all;  and  now  with  a  will, 

Swing  on  your  topsail  halyards,  and  sway; 
Ease  your  braces  and  let  her  fill, 
There's  an  hour  below  of  the  mid-watch  still, 
Haul  taut  your  bowlines — well  all — belay!" 

—  Walter  Mitchell. 


[28] 


THE  North  Wind  blew  at  night  off  the  sea, 
Saying,  " Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  all  of  me  ! 
I  sing  of  the  numbing  Winter's  breath, 
I  sing  of  snow,  and  death. 
I  bring  in  the  wave  with  the  broken  spar, 
And  the  gray  seas  curling  over  the  bar, 
Drifting  at  night  from  a  cold  bright  star — 
Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  all  of  me  !" 

The  South  Wind  blew  at  noon  off  the  sea, 
Singing,  "Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  come  to  me  ! 
I  sing  of  the  golden  buttercup  breath, 
I  sing  the  peace  of  death. 
I  bring  in  the  shells  with  the  laughing  tide, 
And  follow  the  brown  sails  home,  and  slide 
In  the  drowsy  heat  down  the  meadow  side — 
Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  come  to  me  !" 

The  East  Wind  blew  at  morn  off  the  sea, 
Crying,  "Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  all  of  me  ! 
I  sing  of  the  piercing  iceberg's  breath, 
I  sing  the  horror  of  death. 
And  the  tempest's  shriek  in  the  rigging  black, 
And  the  spindrift  wreath  and  the  rolling  wrack, 
And  the  boat  that  never  again  comes  back — 
Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  all  of  me  !" 

[29] 


The  West  Wind  blew  at  dawn  off  the  sea, 
Calling,  < 'Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  come  to  me  ! 
I  sing  of  the  joyous  salt  sea  breath, 
I  sing,  There  is  no  death  ! 
I  murmur  of  sea  caves  rosy  and  deep, 
And  the  glittering  bay  where  the  shoal  fish  leap, 
And  the  lapse  of  the  tide  as  it  sinks  to  sleep — 
Sorrowful,  sorrowful,  come  to  me  !" 

— A.  E.  Gillin°ton. 


[30] 


rHHROUGH  brawling  Biscay  to  Ceuta's  wave 
}       He  has  ridden  unwrecked,  our  merchant  brave; 
But  Gilbert  a  Becket,  beware,  bewa.re  ! 
For  the  sudden  sail  is  the  curs't  Corsair. 

They  have  rifled  his  silks  and  his  good  red  gold, 
And  hurled  him  to  rot  in  a  dungeon  hold  ; 
Till,  Gilbert  a  Becket,  for  love  of  thee, 
Thy  jailer's  daughter  hath  set  thee  free  ! 

Starry  eyes  and  a  storm  of  hair, 
And  a  voice  like  the  wind  harp  on  the  air; 
But,  "Gilbert,"  "London,"  ere  he  goes, 
All,  all  of  his  Northern  speech  she  knows. 

He  has  spun  fresh  silk,  he  has  gotten  fresh  gold, 
But  his  heart  is  behind  in  the  Pirate's  hold. 
Now,  Gilbert  a  Becket,  what  boots  our  wealth, 
If  a  kanker  lurks  in  our  rose  of  health  ? 

Yet  say,  what  burden  of  song  is  borne 
Through  thy  open  casement  this  summer  morn  ? 
"Gilbert,"  "Gilbert,"  its  accent  rise, 
"Gilbert,"  "Gilbert,"  despairing  it  dies. 

Down  the  stair  and  into  the  street 
He  has  flashed,  his  faithful  love  to  meet. 
Maid,  in  whose  arms  are  thou  folded  fast  ? 
"Gilbert,"   "Gilbert,"  at  last,  at  last!" 

— A  If  fed  Per  civ  al  Graves 
[31] 


bOOK  seaward,  sentinel,  and  tell  the  land 
What  you  behold. 

SENTINEL. 

I  see  the  deep-plowed  furrows  of  the  main 

Bristling    with    harvest;    funnel,    and   keel,    and 

shroud, 

Heaving    and    hurrying   hither  through  gale  and 
cloud, 

Winged  by  their  burdens;  argosies  of  grain, 

Flocks  of    strange    breed   and   herds  of    southern 

strain, 
Fantastic  stuffs  and  fruits  of  tropic  bloom, 

Antarctic  fleece  and  equatorial  spice, 

Cargoes  of  cotton,  and  flax,  and  silk  and  rice, 
Food  for  the  hearth  and  staples  for  the  loom; 

Huge  vats  of  sugar,  cases  of  wine  and  oil, 
Summoned  from  every  sea  to  one  sole  shore 
By  Empire's  scepter;  the  converging  store 

Of  Trade's  pacific  universal  spoil; 

And  heaving  and  hurrying  hitherward  to  bring 
Tribute  from  every  zone,  they  lift  their  voices, 
And  as  a  strong  man  revels  and  rejoices, 

They  loudly  and   lustily  chant,   and  this  the  song 
they  sing: 

[  32  ] 


CHORUS    OF    HOME-COMING    SHIPS! 

From  the  uttermost  bound 

Of  the  wind  and  the  foam, 
From  creek  and  from  sound, 

We  are  hastening  home. 
We  are  laden  with  treasure 

From  ransacked  seas, 
To  charm  your  leisure 

To  grace  your  ease. 
We  have  trodden  the  billows, 

And  tracked  the  ford, 
To  soften  your  pillows, 

To  heap  your  board. 
The  hills  have  been  shattered, 

The  forests  scattered, 
Our  white  sails  tattered, 

To  swell  your  hoard. 


[33] 


Is  it  blossom,  or  fruit,  or 

Seed,  you  crave  ? 
The  land  is  your  suitor, 

The  sea  your  slave. 
We  have  raced  with  the  swallows, 

And  threaded  the  floes 
Where  the  walrus  wallows 

'Mid  melting  snows; 
Sought  regions  torrid 

And  realms  of  sleet, 
To  gem  your  forehead, 

To  swathe  your  feet, 
And  behold,  now  we  tender, 

With  pennons  unfurled, 
For  your  comfort  and  splendor, 

The  wealth  of  the  world. 

— Alfred  Austin. 


[34] 


0I 


T  to  Egyptian  sands  alone  belongs 
The  storied  Sphynx.     Upon  this  mighty  sea, 
Her  alter  ego  bides  eternally, 
And  broods,  inscrutable,  o'er  ancient  wrongs. 
Deaf  to  the  magic  of  the  mermaid's  songs, 
The  minor  music  of  the  surge  she  hears; 
The  roar  of  Neptune;  the  wind's  thousand  tongues, 
And  shrieks  of  drowning  men;  yet  guarded  ears 
Send  up  no  message  to  the  stony  eyes 
That  stare  across  the  waves  in  blank  repose. 
Though  sun-kiss'd  sails  and  dreary  shipwrecks  rise 
And  fall,  by  turns — dumbly  she  sits.     She  knows 
Just  where,  in  ocean's  bed,  the  lost  crew  sleeps, 
Yet,  mutely  cold,  the  Sphynx  her  secret  keeps. 

— Eleanor  C.  Donnelly. 


[35] 


©fearnsnrp     e/JperLic, 
J    J  i 

f  .QELCOME,  old  Arabic,  again 

VV     The  ties  which  still  do  bind  thee  here 

Shall  be,  for  many  a  coming  year, 
Thy  truest,  strongest  anchor  chain. 

The  flag  thou  bearest  ne'er  turns  pale, 
The  crimson  flag  which  rules  the  wave, 
And  God,  who  all  that  power  gave, 

Save  thee  from  traitor,  rock  and  gale. 

I  look  with  envy  though  and  cry, 

"Would  that  the  country  of  my  birth 
Could  claim  a  ship  of  equal  worth," 

Proud  then,  by  right,  indeed  were  I. 

And  when  I  gaze  at  thy  fair  form, 
T  pray  that  in  the  nearing  time, 
Ships,  fair  as  thee,  in  every  clime 

Beneath  my  flag  shall  brave  the  storm. 

I  pray  some  ship,  as  thee  divine, 

Beneath  my  Stars  and  Stripes,  may  be 
Thy  sister  queen,  and  every  sea 

Shall  know  but  thy  loved  flag  and  mine. 

Now  welcome  to  my  home  again, 
And  to  my  arms  and  to  my  heart. 
Then  when  thy  duty  bids  depart, 
May  fortune  at  thy  helm  remain. 

—  Charles  A.  Gunnison. 
[36] 


1  DREAMT  dat  I  saw  de  ribber  ob  life, 
*      Dat  flows  to  de  Jaspah  Sea, 
De  angels  war  wadin'  to  an*  fro, 
But  none  ob  'em  spoke  to  me. 
Some  dipped  dere  wings  in  de  silv'ry  tide; 
Some  were  alone,  and  some  side  by  side. 
Nary  a  one  dat  I  knew  could  I  see 

In  dat  ribber  ob  life, 

De  ribber  ob  life 
Dat  flows  to  de  Jaspah  Sea. 

De  ribber  was  wide,  dat  ribber  ob  life, 

De  bottom  I  plainly  could  see; 
De  stones  layin'  dar  was  whiter  den  snow, 

De  sands  looked  like  gold  to  me. 
But  angels  kep'  wadin'  to  an'  fro; 
Whar  did  dey  come  f  om  ?     Whar  did  dey  go  ? 
None  ob  'em  sinnahs  like  me,  I  know, 
In  dat  ribber  ob  life 
De  ribber  ob  life 
Dat  flows  to  the  Jaspah  Sea. 

[37] 


De  watch  was  clear  as  de  "well  by  de  gate," 

Where  Jesus  de  light  first  see, 
De  sof'est  ob  music  f'om  angel  bands 
Come  ober  dat  ribber  ob  golden  sands, 

Come  ober  dat  ribber  to  me, 
An'  den  I  saw  de  clouds  break  way, 
Revealin'  de  pearly  gates  ob  day, 
De  beautiful  day,  dat  nevah  shall  cease, 
Whar  all  is  joy,  an'  lub,  and  peace; 
An,  ovah  dem  gates  was  written  so  clear, 
"Peace  to  all  who  entah  here." 
De  angels  was  gedderin'  'round  de  frone, 
De  gate  done  close — I  was  left  alone, 
Alone  on  de  banks  ob  a  darken'  stream; 
But  when  I  woke  I  foun'  'twas  a  dream. 

[38] 


I'se  gwine  to  ford  dat  ribber  ob  life 

An'  see  eternal  day; 
I'se  gwine  to  hear  dem  heabenly  bands, 
An'  feel  de  tech  ob  ole-time  hands, 

Dat  long  hab  passed  away. 
Dars  crowns  ob  glory  fo'  all,  I'm  told, 
An'  lubly  harps  wid  strings  ob  gold; 
An'  I  know  ef  dar's  peace  beyond  dat  sea, 
Wid  res'  fo'  de  weary,  dar's  res'  fo'  me, 
Beyond  dat  ribber, 
Dat  ribber  ob  life, 
Dat  flows  to  de  Jaspah  Sea. 


[39] 


W 


oes. 


t  1AVE  pity,  ye  Marine  and  Local  Boards, 

j  I      Ye  little  magnates — yea,  most  mighty  lords- 

On  the  poor  skipper,  for  his  lot  is  cast 

Where  fate  unkind  pursues  him  to  the  last. 

Alas!  poor  man,  his,  is  an  evil  plight, 

He's  always  wrong,  he's  never  in  the  right. 

Upon  him,  like  a  scapegoat,  must  be  thrown 

The  faults  of  others,  not  to  say  his  own; 

Disaster  comes,  and  tho'  'twas  not  his  fault, 

"  'Tis  plain  the  fellow  is  not  worth  his  salt." 

Should  fogs  or  currents  put  his  reckoning  out, 

At  once  they  ask,  f  'What  was  the  fool  about  ? " 

His  ship  is  wrecked,  or  by  collision  sunk; 

Of  course  he  has  to  prove  he  wasn't  drunk. 

If  freights  are  low — who  but  himself  to  blame  ? 

Jack's  duff  is  spoiled,  at  once  he  says  the  same; 

The  beef  all  bone  and  innocent  of  fat, 

Who  but  the  skipper  is  to  blame  for  that  ? 

He  shortens  sail  on  some  dark  stormy  night, 

Jack  growls  and  vows  he  did  it  out  of  spite. 

Now  he  must  teach  the  carpenter  his  trade; 

Now  show  sailmaker  how  the  sails  are  made. 

In  time  of  need  he  must  be  midwife  too, 

Or  help  to  kill — as  other  doctors  do. 

[40] 


Should  a  poor  sailor  sleep  his  last  long  sleep, 

He — parson  then — consigns  him  to  the  deep; 

And  if  he  has  a  tear  or  two  to  spare 

He  acts  chief  mourner,  and  bestows  them  there. 

Well  up  in  cooking,  and  in  skill  profound 

At  weighing  tea  and  sugar  by  the  pound; 

Should  there  be  strife  or  mutiny  on  board 

He  drops  the  scales  and  then  takes  up  the  sword. 

And  when  the  strife  is  over  goes  his  rounds, 

And — surgeon  then — binds  up  the  gaping  wounds. 

Now,  an  astronomer,  he  views  the  stars, 

Measures  a  distance  'twixt  the  Moon  and  Mars; 

A  meteorologist  we  find  him  now, 

Recording  calms  or  winds — blow  high  or  low. 

Of  course  he's  Euclid  at  his  finger  ends, 

Or,  what  is  harder,  knows  all  knots  and  bends; 

Is  cunning,  too,  at  mixing  paints  and  oils, 

Takes  everthing  in  hand  and  nothing  spoils. 

Versed  in  exchanges — up  in  bills  of  lading, 

And  now  a  merchant,  for  his  owners  trading, 

They  praise  him  high,  declare  he  is  a  gem; 

The  credit  his — the  cash  all  goes  to  them. 

On  deck  all  night  amid  the  pelting  rain, 

In  wearying  calm  or  dreadful  hurricane, 

China  typhoon,  cyclone  in  Indian  seas, 

Afric's  tornadoes — all  mere  trifles  these ; 

Or  a  bright  glare  at  night  off  Newfoundland, 

Proclaims  the  dreaded  iceberg  close  at  hand. 

[41] 


Such  danger's  o'er,  long-wished-for  rest  is  sought, 
But  "  Hard-a-starboard !"  and  then  "  Hard-a-port!" 
Disturbs  his  dreams,  and,  rushing  from  below, 
"  A  light  close  to,  sir,  on  the  weather  bow!" 
"Hard   up!"   bawls   one;    "Hard    down!"   another 

cries, 

While  half  asleep  the  wearied  skipper  tries 
To  peer  amid  the  gloom,  there  to  discern 
A  steamer's  light — now  half  a  mile  astern. 
Once  more  he  sleeps — but  now  his  sleep  evade 
Dreams  of  Inquiry  Courts  and  Boards  of  Trade. 
On  board  a  steamer  now  he  scorns  the  wind, 
But  other  cares  oppress  his  anxious  mind; 
Of  valves  and  pistons,  cylinders  and  screws, 
He  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  the  names  and  use, 
Surface  condensers,  steam  and  vacuum  gauges. 
Of  coal  combustion  in  its  various  stages, 
Of  salt  in  boilers  and  its  incrustations, 
Of  screw  propellers  and  side-wheel  gyrations; 
Of  things  in  general — air,  and  sky,  and  sea — 
A  walking  cyclopedia  he  must  be. 
Arrived  in  port.     "  Well,  what's  up  now,"  you  ask. 
They've  found  a  little  powder  in  a  flask — 
Fine  him  five  pounds;  and  see — the   careless   dog — 
Here's  an  omission  in  the  official  log; 
Fine  him  again — the  law  must  be  enforced; 
Some  one  must  pay,  so  let  him  bear  the  cost; 
Alas!  poor  skipper,  if  at  sea  you've  trouble. 

[42] 


Arrived  in  port  you  may  perhaps  have  double. 
You're  fined  for  this  because  you  didn't  do  it. 
For  something  else  because  you  never  knew  it; 
Fined  to  the  last  and  turned  from  door  to  door 
To  find  you  are  not  wanted  any  more. 

—An  Old  Salt. 


I 


[43] 


)fe<air)sr)ip     ©etelic. 


f  ,C)ITH  steady,  onward  force  she  went 

Vv      From  Orient  to  Occident. 

The  whistling  winds  which  touched  her  shrouds, 

Made  music,  while  the  evening  clouds 

Sweeping  across  the  upper  sea, 

Sped  not  more  gracefully  than  she. 

Each  foam-capped  wave,  which  met  her  prow, 

Kissed  lightly  as  it  were  the  brow 

Of  one  he  loved  and  worshiped  too, 

And  then  stood  back  for  wondering  view, 

That  one  so  graceful  and  so  fair 

Had  hidden  strength  of  whirlwind  there. 

Proudly  she  pressed,  then  spurned  away 

The  clasping  waves  which  longed  to  stay. 

With  freight  of  lives  and  silks  and  gold, 

One  hand  alone  her  course  controlled, 

And  she,  consenting  to  obey, 

Laughed  at  the  storms  by  night  and  day; 

Until,  with  well-earned  praise  elate, 

She  entered  at  the  Golden  Gate, 

The  Golden  Gate  of  hate,  of  greed, 

Of  Mammon  and  his  hungry  breed, 

Where  bark  the  dogs  which  dare  not  bite, 

Where  clinking  silver  hushes  right, 

And  for  a  time  imprisoned  lay 

In  the  foul  waters  of  the  bay; 

[44] 


There  chained,  within  the  filthy  tide, 
Deep  in  her  iron  heart  she  cried, 
"God  let  me  float,  forever  blest, 
Upon  the  Ocean's  heaving  breast, 
Where  winds  untainted  dash  the  spray 
Upon  my  decks  in  boisterous  play; 
Where  freedom  means  that  one  is  free. 
Grand,  boundless,  loved,  unfathomed  sea! 
What  joy  to  leave  the  sordid  land, 
To  press  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand." 
The  heavy  anchors  rose  at  last. 
The  colors  floated  from  each  mast; 
Proudly  disdainful,  then  she  went 
From  Occident  to  Orient. 

-Charles  A.  Gimnison. 


© 


MEN  gain  new  vigor  at  her  wholesome  breast; 
She  links  far  lands  and  reunites  fond  hearts; 
She  carries  argosies  from  East  to  West 
To  those  of  distant  parts. 

But  more  than  this  her  mission  unto  us, 

The  mission  of  the  many-voiced  sea  ! 
She  rolls  her  ceaseless  waves  to  shore,  and  thus 
She  types  Eternity. 

[451 


©N  the  steady  floor  of  earth  there  is  solid  ease  an' 
mirth, 

There's  a  wife,  perhaps  a  sweetheart  or  a  friend; 
Through   a   roaring  winter's   night   there's   a   lot  o' 

warmth  and  light, 

An'  diversions  fit  to  please  you  to  the  end. 
In  the  blazin'  of  July  to  the  'ot  an'  achin'  eye 

There  is  meadows  where  the  grass  is  wavin'  green, 
Through  the  streets  a  course  you're  trimmin'  'twixt  a 

thousand  pretty  women, 
Like  flowers  in  the  gardens  to  be  seen. 

But  a  far,  far  voice  is  a-calling  out  to  me, 
«f  Come   away  boy — away,   with   my   billows 

for  to  be!*' 
And    my    blood    is    beatin'    briskly    to    the 

soundin'  of  the  sea, 
And  the  "  chantie  "  of  the  Outward  Bound. 

I  landed  from  Rangoon  just  a  year  ago  in  June. 

And  I  thought  the  run  was  goin'  to  be  my  last; 
An'  'ere  once  more  am  I  in  the  middle  of  July, 

Lookin'  out  to  sign  agin  afore  the  mast. 
I'm  a-weary  of  the  land,  though  there's  dollars  to 
my  hand, 

And  I  know  I  shall  be  dammin'  in  the  boat; 

[46] 


But   the  wind  is  all  off  shore,  in  the  city's  loudest 
roar. 
There's  a  word  passed  along  through  the  airs 

about  the  quays; 
"  Round  the  world  again   let   me  send  you 

swinging  on  my  seas; 
On  a  big  main-skys'l  yarder   with   a   slashin' 

tops'l  breeze, 
Join  the  chorus  of  the  Outward  Bound!  " 

I  was  happy  through  that  year,  with  my  lovin'   little 

dear, 

And  a  rigger's  berth  ashore  in  Sunderland; 
And  I  bet  you'd  never  spot  any  neater  little  cot 
Than  the  'ome  my  little  woman  kept  in  hand. 
Bat  it  lasted  scarce  as  long  as  the  singin'  of  a  song, 

And  her  face  when  last  I  kissed  it  was  as  ice; 
And  it's  truth  to  you  I  tell,  I'd  as  soon  reside  in  hell 
As  the  'ouse  that  was  my  little  paradise. 

So  away  once  again  on  the  round  as  never 

ends, 

With  a  fok's'le  for  my  parlor,  an'  with  Dutch- 
men for  my  friends — 
The  only  kind  of  'ome  as  God  A'mighty  e'er 

intends 
For  the  comfort  of  the  Outward  Bound. 

If  you   sailed   at  close  of  day,  when   the  seas  was 
cold  an'  gray, 

[47] 


An'  the  shore 'ard  lights  were  flyin'  fast  astarn, 
When   a   takin'   of  your   wheel,   then  some   cur'us 

things  you'd  feel, 
An'  a  bit  of  "  'Home  an' England  "  you  would 

larn. 
But  be  England  far  or  nigh,  it  is  all  no  odds  to  I, 

By  consequence  of  standin'  quite  alone; 
So  I  twigs  my  compass  card,  an'  I  bites  my  chew  of 

"  hard," 

While  the  shrouds  is  hummin'  like  a  telephone. 
"To   her  course  hold   her   true,    that's   the 

thing  you've  got  to  do; 

All   your  friends  and  your  relations  is  a  cap- 
tain an'  a  crew, 
Till  they  slides  you  out  o'  soundin'  an'  you 

sways  in  water  blue, 
Fathoms  deep  below  the  Outward  Bound." 

Then  away  my  cares  I'll  fling  when  the  decks  they 

are  a-swing, 

An'  we're  chuckin'  all  the  Western  ocean  aft. 
When  we  tumble   to    our   places  for  to  sweat  the 

blooming  braces, 

We'll  sing  a  clipper's  soul  into  the  craft. 
Though  perhaps  she  is  a  witch  and  be'aves  'erself  as 

sich, 

Slucin  water  on  my  blankets,  bunk  an'  bed. 
At  the  least  she  won't  remind  me  of  the  foundered 
'ome  behind  me, 

[48] 


And  the  gentle  lass  I  laid  among  the  dead. 

To  its  blazin'  suns,  an'  bitter  cold,  an'  roarin5" 

wind  and  weather, 
As'll  tauten  up  my  stays  again,  an'  tan  my 

hide  to  leather. 
With  Dagos,  Dutch  an'  Englishmen  a  cursin* 

all  together 
In  the  fo'k'sle  of  the  Outward  Bound. 


f©  frje    Vi 


^A  VE  Sanctissima, 
Q/H     \Ve  lift  our  souls  to  thee; 
Ora  pro  nobis, 

Tis  nightfall  on  the  sea. 
Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 

Far  o'er  the  waters  spread, 
Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh, 

Thine  too  has  bled. 
Thou  that  has  looked  on  Death, 

Aid  us  when  Death  is  near, 
Whisper  of  Heav'n  to  Faith, 

Sweet  Mother.  Sweet  Mother  hear! 
Ora  pro  nobis, 

The  wave  must  rock  our  sleep, 
Ora  Mater  Ora,  Star  of  the  Deep. 

—  Mrs.  Hemans. 

[49] 


©t  il)^  Isle   JJ<zi 


'Was  one  dark  night  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

De  weend  was  blow,  blow,  blow, 
Wen  the  crew  of  de  wood  skow  Isle  La  Plante 
Got  scare  an'  ron  below. 

For  de  weend  she's  blow  lak  horricane, 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
Wen  de  skow  buss  up  on  Lac  St  Pierre, 

'Bout  alf  mile  from  de  shore. 

De  captain,  she's  walk  on  de  front  deck, 

She's  walk  on  de  hin'  deck  too. 
She's  call  de  cook  up  from  de  hole, 

She's  called  hup  all  de  crew. 


[50] 


De  cook,  he's  name  was  Rosie, 

He's  come  from  Montreal, 
Was  chambermaid  hon  lumber  barge 

On  de  beeg  Lachine  canaul. 

De  weend,  she's  blow  from  de  nor,  eas,  wes, 

De  sou  weend  she's  blow  too, 
Wen  Rosie  say,  "  Oh,  Capitan, 

Wutever  shall  we  do  ?" 

De  Captain,  she's  trow  de  hankre  out, 

But  still,  de  skow  she's  drift 
For  de  crew,  he  can't  pass  on  de  shore 

Because  he's  loss  de  skeef. 

De  night  was  dark  as  one  black  cat, 

De  wuve  roa  high  and  fass, 
Wen  de  Captain  take  poor  Rosie 

An'  tie  her  by  de  mass. 

Den  de  Captain,  he's  put  on  de  life  preserve, 

An'  he  jornp  into  de  lake, 
An'  he  say,  "Good  bye  my  Rosie,  dear, 

I  die  for  your  sweet  sake." 

Nex  morning  very  heariy, 

'Bout  alf  pass  two,  tree,  four, 
De  Captain,  cook  an  wood  skow, 

Lay  corpses  on  dat  shore. 

An  de  weend  she's  blow  lak  horricane, 
Bimeby  she's  blow  some  more, 

[51] 


An  de  skow  buss  up  on  Lac  St.   Pierre, 
'Bout  alf  mile  from  de  shore. 

L'ENVOI. 

Now  h'all  good  wood  skow  sailor  mans 

Take  warning  by  dat  storm, 
An  go  an  marry  one  nice  French  girl 

And  leeve  on  one  good  farm. 

Den  de  weend  she  may  blow  lak  horricane 
And  spose  she's  blows  some  more, 

You  don't  be  drowned  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 
So  longs  you  stop  on  shore. 


/52] 


0|  frje  ( f 


IT  was  our  war-ship  Clamperdown, 
Would  sweep  the  channel  clean, 
Wherefore  she  kept  her  hatches  close 
When  the  merry  channel  chops  arose, 
To  save  the  bleached  marine. 

There  was  one  bow  gun  of  a  hundred  ton, 

An$  a  great  stern  gun  beside; 
They  dipped  their  noses  deep  in  the  sea, 
They  racked  their  stays  and  stanchions  free, 

In  the  wash  of  the  wind-whipped  tide. 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clamperdown, 

Fell  in  with  a  cruiser  tight, 
That  carried  the  dainty  Hotchkiss  gun 
And  a  pair  oj  heels  wherewith  to  run 

From  the  grip  of  a  close-fought  fight. 

They  opened  fire  at  seven  miles — 

As  ye  shoot  at  a  bobbing  cork — 
And  once  they  fired  and  twice  they  fired, 
And  the  bow-gun  drooped  like  a  lily  tired, 
That  lolls  upon  the  stalk. 

* 'Captain,  the  bow-gun  melts  a  pace, 

The  deck-beams  break  below; 
'Twere  well  to  rest  for  an  hour  or  twain, 

[53] 


And  botch  the  shattered  plates  again," 
And  he  answered,  "Make  it  so." 

They  opened  fire  within  mile— 

As  ye  shoot  at  the  flying  duck — 
And  the  great  stern -gun  shot  fair  and  true, 
With  the  heave  of  the  ship,  to  the  stainless  blue, 

And  the  great  stern-turret  stuck. 

"Captain,  the  turret  fills  with  steam, 

The  feed-pipes  burst  below — 
You  can  hear  the  hiss  of  the  helpless  ram, 
You  can  hear  the  twisted  runners  jam," 

And  he  answered,  "Turn  and  go!" 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clamperdown, 

And  grimly  did  she  roll; 
Swung  round  to  take  the  cruiser's  fire 
As  the  White  Whale  faces  the  Thresher's  ire, 

When  they  war  by  the  frozen  Pole. 

"Captain,  the  shells  are  falling  fast, 

And  faster  still  fall  we; 
And  it  is  not  meet  for  English  stock 
To  wait,  in  the  heart  of  an  eight-day  clock, 

The  death  they  can  not  see." 

"Lie  down,  lie  down,  my  bold  A.  B., 

We  drift  upon  her  beam; 
We  dare  not  ram,  for  she  will  run; 
And  dare  ye  fire  another  gun, 

And  die  in  the  peeling  steam  ?" 

[54] 


It  was  our  war-ship  Clamperdown 

That  bore  an  armor-belt; 
But  fifty  feet  at  stern  and  bow 
Lay  bare  as  the  paunch  of  the  purser's  sow, 

To  the  hail  of  the  Nordenfelt. 

1  'Captain,  they  pierce  the  bow-plates  through; 

The  chilled-steel  bolts  are  swift! 
We  have  emptied  the  bunkers  in  open  sea, 
Their  shrapnel  bursts  where  our  coal  should  be." 

And  he  answered,  '.'Let  her  drift/' 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clamperdown, 

Swung  round  upon  the  tide. 
Her  two  dumb  guns  glared  south  and  north, 
And  the  blood  and  the  bubbling  steam  ran  forth, 

And  she  ground  the  cruiser's  side. 

"Captain,  they  cry  the  fight  is  done; 

They  bid  you  send  your  sword." 

And  he  anwered,  "Grapple  her  stern  and  bow. 

They  have  asked  for  the  steel.     They  shall  have  it 

now; 
Out  cutlasses  and  board!" 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clamperdown, 

Spewed  up  four  hundred  men; 
And  the  scalded  stokers  yelped  delight, 
As  they  rolled  in  the  waist  and  heard  the  fight, 

Rave  over  their  steel-walled  pen. 

[55] 


They  cleared  the  cruiser  end  to  end, 

From  conning-tower  to  hold. 
They  fought  as  they  fought  in  Nelson's  fleet; 
They  were   stripped  to  the  waist,  they  were  bare  of 
the  feet, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old. 

It  was  the  sinking  Clamperdown 

Heaved  up  her  battered  side — 
And  carried  a  million  pounds  in  steel, 
To  the  cod  and  the  corpse-fed  conger-eel, 

And  the  scour  of  the  Channel  tide. 

It  was  the  crew  of  the  Clamperdown 

Stood  out  to  sweep  the  sea, 
On  a  cruiser  won  from  an  ancient  foe, 
As  it  was  in  the  days  of  long  ago, 

And  as  it  still  shall  be. 


[56] 


APPENDIX. 


"Si  monumentum  quaeris  eircumspice." 

Maritime  melodies  are  behind  you,  Chanties,  and 
an  omnium  gatherum  before  you.  When  the  COM- 
MERCIAL PUBLISHING  COMPANY  decided  on  this  book 
as  a  Christmas  souvenir  to  its  best  friends,  the  compiler 
was  given  carte  blanche  in  the  matter.  With  a  ten- 
derness for  some  poems  not  maritime,  and  having  in 
them  no  reference  to  the  business  office  of  this  com- 
pany, he  decided  to  sandwich  them  between  the 
little  gems  of  a  business  character,  hoping  the  reader 
will  be  led  on  to  the  end  of  the  book,  and  that  the 
business  maxims  it  teaches,  while  impressing  each 
one,  will  be  brightened  by  the  selections  that  have 
no  reference  to  the  printer's  craft.  The  COMMERCIAL 
PUBLISHING  COMPANY  has  to  thank  many  friends  for 
contributions  to  these  pages,  which  are  made  up 
from  poems  clipped  from  exchanges  chiefly,  and 
credit  is  in  each  case  given  to  the  author  where 
known,  but  in  no  case  to  the  paper  from  which  it 
was  taken,  as  nearly  all  have  been  passed  along  from 
one  journal  to  another  by  the  omnivorous  scissors- 
editor. 

The  poems  unsigned  are,  therefore,  from  the  pen 
of  one  unknown  to  this  office  or  one  too  modest  to- 
become  famous  in  this  book. 

[59] 


JjT  WAS  the  intention  to  give  in  this  edition  of 
^  "Maritime  Melodies"  a  number  of  chanties,  but 
without  the  music,  the  action  and  the  very  spirit  of 
the  sea,  words  are  feeble. 

The  "Chanty,"  a  corruption  of  the  French  verb 
to  sing,  came  from  New  Orleans,  where  the  French 
darkies  made  up  songs  to  suit  the  occasion  as  they 
loaded  the  Yankee  clipper  ships  with  cotton.  The 
Yankee  sailor  in  turn  "caught  on"  and  calling  their 
songs  "Shanties,"  made  rhymes  and  fitted  them  to 
music  that  assisted  in  heaving  anchor,  setting  and 
furling  sails,  pumping  out  the  ship,  etc.  And  now 
the  "motif"  is  explained. 

With  the  decadence  of  the  American  marine  since 
"the  late  unpleasantness"  between  the  brethren 
North  and  South,  who,  before  and  since  that  episode 
have  dwelt  together  in  unity,  it  has  been  an  unfor- 
tunate fact  that  the  American  Mercantile  Marine  is 
more  of  a  theory  than  a  condition.  With  the  ship, 
the  American  sailor  has  also  disappeared.  But  the 
Shanty  remains.  Listen.  The  fine  100  Ai  British 
ship  California,  a  good  ship  with  a  good  name,  but 
flying  the  flag  of  Great  Britain,  instead  of  the  Stars 
and  Stripes,  officered  and  manned  by  lusty  Britons, 
good  fellows  all,  but  unfortunate  in  not  being  born 
here:  The  fine  ship  California  is  leaving  the  State 

160] 


for  \\hich  she  is  named,  and  on  the  order  to  heave  up. 
anchor,  the  Chanty  man  starts  in: 

"As  I  was  walking  down  the  street, 

Hoodah,  to  my  Hoodah; 
A.  charming  girl  I  chanced  to  meet,, 

Hoodah,  Hoodah  day. 


Blow  ye  winds,  heig.ho, 

For  California,  O: 
There's  plenty  of  gold 

So  I've  been  told 
On  the  banks  of  Sacramento. 


"ON  TUP:  BANKS  OF  SACRAMENTO." 

While  there  is  much  about  the  Yankee  skipper,, 
the  Yankee  clipper,  the  famous  Black  Ball  line,  in 
every  chanty  sung  aboard  any  ship,  American  or  for- 

[61  ] 


•eign,  the  only  collection  of  Chanties  is  an  English 
edition  in  which  these  references  are  generally  elim- 
inated, while  as  sung  aboard  ship,  there  is  so  much 
that  while  forcible  is  hardly  polite,  it  is  impossible  to 
reprint  those  particular  chanties  having  reference  to 
the  past  glories  of  American  shipping.  Therefore 
Chanties  cut  no  further  figure  in  this  book,  but  songs 
with  the  sea  for  their  subject  are  again  used  in 
MARITIME  MELODIES. 


HERE'S  many  a  merchant  who  is  yy 

Enough  to  take  his  ee. 
To  study  business  with  his  ii 
COMMERCIAL  NEWS  he  cc.  . 

This  valued  journal  he  will  uu, 

Lest  trade  with  him  dk 
No  clerk  of  his  will  he  xqq 

Who  reads  it  not  each  day. 

Result  is,  he  but  little  oo, 

Has  much  with  which  to  pay. 

This  hint  you'll  take,  unless  u  r 
What  some  folks  call  a  j. 

[62] 


/7ALKERS  and  shipwrights, 
\     Also  midshipmites, 
Trentice  and  captains, 
Builders  of  capstans, 
While  all  jolly  tars, 
The  makers  of  spars, 
Liners  and  brokers, 
Coal  dusty  stokers, 
Runner  and  agent, 
Make  up  the  pageant, 
With  sellers  of  wheat 
And  dealers  in  meat, 
Exporters  of  wares, 
The  brokers  in  fares, 
Owners  of  whalers, 
Steamers  and  sailers 
Of  iron  or  wood; 
The  dealers  in  food; 
These  also  and  more 
Crowd  up  at  the  door 
Where  eagle  o'erhead 
(No  pinions  are  spread) 
Sits  there  evermore 
Above  34. 

[63] 


Now  cannot  you  see 
And  with  me  agree 
That  this  34 
Is  over  the  door 
Through  which  you  must  go 
For  printing,  you  know, 
For  ledgers  and  bills, 
Newspapers  or  wills, 
For  charters  or  cards, 
Or  posters  by  yards. 
No  need  to  say  more, 
Just  try  34. 

Commercial  Publishing  Co., 

Printers  and  Publishers, 

34  California  street, 
Sign  of  the  Eagle's  Head. 


[64] 


1©P» 


tiE  does  not  choose  a  single  flower 

And  look  at  that  alone; 
He  does  not  praise  two  twinkling  stars 
As  if  no  others  shown. 

Though  liking  beef  yet  he  likes  quail, 

Two  very  different  things; 
And  need  it  follow  he  hates  ale 

Because  champagne  he  sings  ? 

Blue  eyes  he  loves,  and  he  loves  gray, 

While  black  seem  just  as  fair, 
And  he  may  praise  on  any  day 

Both  brown  and  golden  hair. 

Thus  sing  he  may  all  shades  of  red, 

And  tresses  bleached  or  blue, 
E'en  worship  some  false-fronted  head 

And  yet  to  all  be  true. 

But  surely  some  sad  fate  awaits, 

(Far  worse  than  Adam's  fall,) 
The  man  who  will  not  take  a  half 

Because  he  can't  get  all. 

—  Charles  A.  Gunnison. 

[65J 


tiE  left  his  club,  he  gave  up  smoking, 
[         At  night  dared  not  out  doors  to  stir; 
At  last  through  her  demands  provoking, 

No  more  was  left — he  gave  up  her. 
And  subscribed  for  the  COMMERCIAL  NEWS,  as  be- 
ing better,  cheaper  and  more  companionable. 


y 


THE   STORY   OF   A   NEW   AND   SEDUCTIVE    DRINK. 

IT  was  a  gallant  stranger, 
Of  goodly  height  and  weight, 
Who  wore  a  bale  of  whiskers 
Most  fierce  to  contemplate, 
An  eke  an  air  of  freshness 
Brought  from  ye  Golden  Gate, 

He  came  into  my  sanctum 
One  pleasant  afternoon, 
And  hinted  that  we  visit 
Some  neighboring  saloon; 
I  made  a  bad  exception 
And  went  with  him  full  soon, 

[66] 


When  we  arrived,  ye  stranger, 
Who  hailed  from  ye  coast, 
Drew  forth  a  yellow  eagle, 
And  shouted  to  mine  host: 
"Flo!  mix  us  two  bonanzas, 
We  fain  would  drink  a  toast!" 

Then  did  ye  skillful  mixer 

Two  bottles  set  in  line, 

Ye  one  contained  brandy, 

Ye  other  yellow  wine, 

And  these  two  pleasant  liquids 

Proceeded  to  combine. 

Ye  stranger  eyed  ye  compound 
With  sigh  ,of  deepest  bliss; 
Then  down  his  hairy  gullet 
It  slipped  with  gurgling  hiss, 
And  I  did  cast  a  bumper 
Into  mine  own  abyss. 

Then  forth  again  we  sallied 

Into  ye  outer  air, 

When  lo!  this  world  seemed  glorious, 

This  life  a  boon  most  rare, 

And  that  bewhiskered  giant 

A  man  divinely  fair! 

Quoth  I :  < 'This  same  bonanza 
Puts  fire  into  ye  heart. 

-67] 


Return  with  me,  I  prithe, 
Unto  ye  liquor  mart, 
And  I,  as  doth  beseem  me, 
Will  play  ye  buyer's  part." 

When  next  again  we  sallied 

Into  ye  crowded  street, 

'  Twas  arm  in  arm  we  wandered 

And  lifted  high  our  feet, 

Ye  while  ye  gracious  pavement 

Rose  up  our  souls  to  meet. 

Ye  third  time  that  we  issued 

From  that  accursed  den 

A  change  was  wrought  within  us,. 

Defying  tongue  or  pt  n. 

Each  fireplug  seem<-d  a  hogshead,. 

Each  man  looked  like  to  ten. 

And  still  a  fourth  bonanza 
Each  poured  into  his  face, 
Which  caused  ye  mighty  buildings 
All  round  about  to  chasr, 
And  made  ye  streets  and  alleys 
Tie  up  and  interlace. 

Anon  ye  swaying  sidewalk 
Grew  rife  vMth  ^ngghng  things; 
With  lobsters,  pterodactyls, 
And  toads  with  ticry  wings, 

[68] 


With  blue  and  greenish  devils, 
And  snakes  with  twisting  stings. 

That  night  within  ye  prison 
I  slept  as  sleep  ye  dead; 
My  right  arm  for  a  pillow, 
An  oak  plank  for  a  bed; 
And  when  I  woke  ye  morrow, 
I  wondered  at  my  head! 

Since  then  within  my  pocket 
I  bear  a  monstrous  gun; 
Perchance  I  may  encounter 
Again  that  Native  Son; 
And  if  he  says  "bonanza" 
I'll  either  shoot  or  run! 

—  George  Horton. 


]>©ur)<2i, 


f     ITTLE  Bo  Peep,  she  lost  her  sheep, 
*-J     But  knew  just  how  to  find  'em; 
An  "ad"  in  this  paper* 

Brought  the  sheep  with  a  caper, 
And  a  bill  tied  on  behind  'em. 
[*"This  paper,"of  course,  refers  to  the  COMMERCIAL 
NEWS,  although  there  is  no  copyright  on  the  above 
beautiful  poem.] 

[69] 


t  HAVE  read  in  song  and  story 

Of  the  honest  hand  of  toil; 
Of  the  strong  right  hand  of  labor 

And  the  hand  that  tills  the  soil. 
I  have  heard  the  sweet  old  saying, 

In  the  dust  of  ages  furled, 
That  the  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle 

Is  the  hand  that  rules  the  world. 

I  have  harkened  to  the  singing, 

And  have  wondered  at  the  song; 
For  I  deem  the  theme  poetic, 

Though  I  hold  the  legend  wrong. 
Not  the  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle, 

Nor  the  babe's  rose-palm  up-curled, 
Is  the  hand  that  sways  the  nations 

And  the  hand  that  rules  the  world. 

Speak  not  of  the  hand  of  guidance. 

Pointing  out  the  narrow  way, 
For  the  royal  hand  I  sing  of 

Is  a  mightier  one  than  they; 
Than  the  hand  that  bears  the  banner 

Through  the  smoke  of  battle  hurled, 
For  the  great  hand  is  the  straight  hand 

And  the  hand  that  rules  the  world 

[70] 


Tell  me  not  of  hands  heroic, 

Battling  for  our  fellow  men; 
Of  the  helping  hand  of  woman, 

Or  the  hand  that  wields  the  pen; 
Nor  the  hand  that  beats  the  carpet 

On  the  back -yard  fence  unfurled; 
For  the  hand  that  beats  four  aces 

Is  the  hand  that  rules  the  world. 

—  Kate  Master  son. 


1© 


rHHERE  was  a  man  in  our  town, 
I       And  he  was  wondrous  wise, 
He  came  into  our  printing  house 
Because  we  advertise. 

And  when  he  found  our  model  shop 

He  quickly  did  explain 
He  wanted  lots  of  printing  done,, 

Some  fancy,  other  plain, 

[711 


"r©   lYiiayerpel   ijrpli 


pir)<2[ 


ON  HIS  FINDING  THE  PROPER  SPOT  ON  WHICH  TO 
CHASTISE  U.    S. 


E  a  dandy,  you're  a  daisy 
Rudyard,  were  I  not  so  lazy 
I  would  write  in  elegiacs 
Four  score  thousand  lines  of  praise. 
Thank  your  stars  I  was  born  tired; 
Though  my  soul  by  song  is  fired 
I  am  far  too  weary,  Rudyard, 
For  to  fan  it  to  a  blaze. 
But  I  love  you  for  your  muscle, 
And  the  never-ending  bustle 
You've  kicked  up  in  one  short  journey 
Through  our  "God  Almighty"  land, 
By  the  much-deserved,  sharp  spanking 
You  have  given  us,  and  thanking 
You  for  all  those  stories  stolen, 
Compliment  you  on  your  sand. 
Glad  you  knocked  Chicago  silly, 
She  deserved  it,  rampant  filly, 
Saying  that  she  heads  this  nation; 
But  you  found  her  place  of  rank, 
Though  our  land  be  fair  as  Venus, 
(Here's  a  little  joke  between  us), 
She's  the  middle  of  the  country, 
And  the  proper  place  to  spank! 

—  Charles  A.  Gunnison. 
[72] 


(§J10:(asf0r)e 


Here  is  a  test  which  is  used  among  English  school  boys  as  "Peter 
Piper  picked  a  peek  of  pickled  peppers"  is  used  in  this  country.  It 
is  a  catch  in  writing,  as  well  as  in  speaking,  and  is  attributed  to 
Gladstone: 

f  .QHILE  hewing  yews,  Hew  lost  his  ewe, 

vV     And  put  it  in  the  "Hue  and  Cry." 

To  name  its  face's  dusky  hues 

Was  all  the  effort  he  could  use. 

You  brought  it  to  him  by-and-by 

And  only  asked  the  hewer's  ewer, 

Your  hands  to  wash  in  water  pure, 

Lest  nice-nosed  ladies  not  a  few 

Should  cry  on  coming  near  you,  "Ugh!" 


The  "Hue  and  Cry  was  not  the  press, 
As  we  can  show,  and  want  redress. 

You  brought  the  ewe  back  from  the  news, 

The  NEWS  contained  (which  you  peruse) 

The  ewe  belonged  to  Hugh's  mews. 

He  gave  you  pesos  dos  Peru's 

Or  Hugh's  silver  gained  from  ewes, 

Or  else  from  yews,  which  Hugh  now  hews, 

The  silver  came.     A  part  you  use 

In  purchase  of 

COMMERCIAL  NEWS. 

[73] 


J  r)£   ]&>©fflfc  eri)<a 


©NCE  on  a  time  a  friend  of  mine  prevailed  on 
me  to  go 

To  see  the  dazzling  splendors  of  a  sinful  ballet  show,. 
And  after  we  had  reveled  in  the  salatory  sights, 
We    sought   a   neighboring   cafe   for  more   tangible 

delights; 
When  I  demanded   of    my  friend   what   viands  he 

preferred, 
He   quoth:     "  A  large  cold   bottle   and   small   hot 

bird!" 

Fool  that  I  was,  I  did  not  know  what  anguish  hidden) 

lies 
Within  the  morceau  that  allures  the  nostrils  and  the 

eyes! 
There   is  a  glorious  candor   in   an   honest  quart  of 

wine — 

A  certain   inspiration  which  I   cannot    well  define  f 
How  it  bubbles,  how  it  sparkles,  how  its  gurgling 

seems  to  say: 
"Come,  on  a  tide  of  rapture  let  me  float  your  soul 

away! " 

But  the  crispy  steaming  mouthful  that  is  spread  upon 

your  plate — 
How  it  discounts  human  sapience  and  satirizes  fate£ 

174] 


You  wouldn't  think  a  thing  so  small  could   cause 

the  pains  and  aches 
That    certainly    accrue    to    him    that   of    that  thing 

partakes; 
To  me,  at  least  (a  guileless  wight!),   it   never  once 

occurred 
What    horror    was   encompassed  in  that   small    hot 

bird. 

Oh,  what  a  head  I  had  on  me  when  I  awoke  next 
day, 

And  what  a  firm  conviction  of  intestinal  decay! 

What  seas  of  mineral  water  and  of  bromide  I  ap- 
plied 

To  quench  those  fierce  volcanic  fires  that  rioted 
inside! 

And,  oh!  the  thousand  solemn,  awful  vows  I  plighted 
then 

Never  to  tax  my  system  with  a  small  hot  bird  again ! 

The  doctor  seemed  to  doubt  that  birds  could  worry 

people  so, 
But,  bless  him!  since  I  ate  the  bird,  I  guess  I  ought 

to  know! 

The  acidous  condition  of  my  stomach,  so  he  said, 
Bespoke  a  vinous  irritant  that  amplified  my  head, 
And,  ergo,  the  causation  of  the  thing,  as  he  inferred, 
Was  the  large  cold  bottle,  not  the  small  hot  bird. 

[75] 


Of  course  I  know  it  wasn't,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  say 

I'm  right 
If  ever  it  has  been   your  wont  to  train  around  at 

night; 
How    sweet   is    retrospection    when    one's    heart    is 

bathed  in  wine, 
And  before  its  balmy  breath  how  do   the  ills  of  life 

decline! 
How  the  gracious  juices  drown  what  grief  would  vex 

a  mortal  breast, 
And  float  the  flattered  soul  into  the  port  of  dreamless 

rest! 

But  you,  O  noxious  pigmy  bird!  whether  it  be  you 

fly 
Or  paddle   in    the    stagnant   pools   that    sweltering, 

festering  lie — 
I  curse  you  and  your  evil  kind  for  that  you  do  me 

wrong, 
Engendering  poisons  that  corrupt  my  petted  muse  of 

song; 
Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  never  more  discomfort  me 

and  mine — 
I    fain    would    barter  all   thy  brood   for  one   sweet 

draught  of  wine! 

So,  hither  come,  O  sportive   youth!  when   fades  the 
tell-tale  day — 

[76] 


Come  hither  with  your  fillets  and  your  wreaths  of 
posies  gay; 

We  shall  unloose  the  fragrant  seas  of  seething,  froth- 
ing wine 

Which  now  the  cobwebbed  glass  and  envious  wire 
and  corks  confine, 

And  midst  the  pleasing  revelry  the  praises  shall  be 
heard 

Of  the  large  cold  bottle,  not  the  small  hot  bird ! 

—Eugene  Field. 


lr)veslrr)er)f. 


/INHERE  was  a  young  man  of  La  Rue's, 

}       Who  constantly  studied  the  NEWS. 
In  less  than  a  year 
He  had  nothing  to  fear, 
As  he  had  a  large  fortune  to  use( 

Feeling  proud  of  his  very  great  hoard, 

He  purchased  a  seat  in  the  Board; 

He  paid  such  a  price, 

(Although  t'was  not  nice), 

He  gave  up  the  NEWS  he  adored. 

Attempting  to  shorten  some  wheat, 

(Considered  a  dangerous  feat), 

At  the  end  of  a  year 

To  all  it  was  clear 

He  had  lost  both  his  money  and  seat. 

He  purchased  the  NEWS  at  this  time, 
Having  borrowed  the  half  of  a  dime. 
With  this  fund  of  knowledge, 
As  though  fresh  from  college, 
He  acted  with  courage  sublime. 

Out  of  charters  he  made  a  great  pile, 
Which  frequently  caused  him  to  smile, 

[78] 


And  he  said  "it  is  plain, 

My  losses  in  grain 

Came  from  stopping  the  NEWS  for  a  while. 

So  now  this  young  man  from  La  Rue's 

Not  only  subscribes  for  the  NEWS, 

But  he  orders  each  day, 

In  the  NEWS  (with  display), 

An  "ad"  for  his  frienqs  vo  peruse. 


[79] 


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DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

AUG  2  5  2001 


